Chapter Thirteen

ARTHUR CATCHES HOLD of the ladder and supports his weight with his arms. It strains his already fatigued muscles, and he grunts around the blade held in his mouth. He grimaces and steadies himself, looking up and down the shaft. The metal rungs of the ladder are rough and abrasive on the bottom of his feet. He wishes he had a belt to secure the knife. His jaw still hurts, and clamping it around the blade doesn’t help. He climbs. The shaft is surprisingly well lit by ambient light, which streams in from each floor. “Lucky this building is that fucking old,” he mutters. It appears all the shaft doors on the main floors of the house are gates.

When he reaches the first floor, he assesses the situation. He’s now three floors up from the base of the shaft and three floors down from the lift. A small lip is just inside the door, but it is too narrow to stand on and serves more as a threshold. Fuck. The gate itself is shaped with intricately curved metal in an art nouveau motif. He can see through its gaps to a hall beyond. He spots no one.

Arthur grips the ladder with one hand. He stretches across the shaft and tries to reach the gate latch, but it is beyond his fingertips. He grunts, sliding his hand down and leaning closer.

The piano is still playing, the music seeming to come from above. Arthur imagines Ward’s hands on Kit. He grinds his teeth down on the knife blade and reaches for a piece of metal pipe running down the shaft beside the door.

There is no foothold. Arthur swings his body and attempts to find purchase for a foot on the threshold. His arm aches with the strain, and he holds himself in place, grips the latch, and opens the gate. He slips out and slides it closed behind him.

The elevator is set in an alcove to the side of a hall. He peers around the corner and sees a long, imposing foyer with a grand staircase at its side. To the rear of the house is a closed set of double doors. Light is visible through the keyhole and from around the edges. The music definitely comes from farther above. It echoes down the stairs. They look marble.

He sends a text to Cooper.

Foyer looks unguarded. They have him upstairs.

He tucks the phone back in his pocket without waiting for a reply. He reopens the gate and leaps onto the ladder. The soles of his feet scrape against the rungs. He pulls the gate closed behind him, arms screaming with the stretch and strain, and climbs.

The light is just slightly brighter on this floor. Second floor. This time, he hears voices. He takes a steadying breath and hauls himself over to the pipe, then opens the gate, hoping it’s been oiled.

The alcove with the elevator is shadowed and dark. The floors are marble here, too, and light reflects on it from the front and the rear of the house. Arthur hears the pianist in the front room, and he recognizes the tune but can’t name it. When he sneaks a glance around the corner, one of the men in suits is playing. He wonders how many servants they have.

The middle of the floor feels like an intimate space, with the same dark paneled walls as the basement chamber and blood-red upholstery on antique chairs. A table in the center holds orchids. A petal has fallen to the floor.

The voice comes from the rear, and Arthur ducks low and creeps out until he can see. The dining room, he realizes. Kit sits at the table, and Ward sits directly beside him, despite its size. He talks to him in a low, tender voice.

Arthur realizes he’s holding something and trying to coax Kit into eating. He also realizes he’ll be spotted easily if he makes any noise. He ducks back into the shadowy alcove. There’s no space on this floor for a kitchen, so it must be somewhere above or, most likely, below. Food would be brought up with the elevator, and while it’s a gamble, he imagines they only have one. There has to be a staff area, like a butler’s pantry. He slides his hand along the wall and finds the edge of a mostly hidden door.

He opens it and sees a service staircase and passageway leading to another door on the other side, with a serving area beyond. It’s open, and a servant stands at the far end. He’s young, and Arthur takes a few steps forward and waits for him to turn, holding the knife behind his back. The man turns, and his eyes go wide. “Sir?” His eyes go up and down, taking in Arthur’s bare feet and rumpled clothes.

“I need some help,” Arthur says in a low voice.

“Are you a guest?” He peeks through the glass door, checking the dining room.

“Uh, yeah. Staying…upstairs.”

“Do you need something?”

“I, hm, wanted a…drink…” He inspects the room as he talks. There are spare table settings, it seems, glasses and some decanters, as well as closed cabinets.

“Which room are you staying in?”

“…War—er, Mike’s?”

If it confuses the man, he covers it well. Arthur supposes there are frequently multiple guests in any number of the rooms here. “There’s a wet bar, sir, by the television.”

“Yeah, uh, I need different… Scotch.”

“I see. I will have something sent up—”

“No, I need you to get it now.”

“Sir?”

“Go get it for me.” He gestures back toward the staircase. “You know they’re… occupied.”

The man peeks out again, takes a deep breath, and nods. “Very well. I’ll return shortly.” He disappears down the stairs.

Arthur opens a few cabinets and closes them. He turns and opens another, then smiles. He pulls out a table runner and a cloth napkin. He peeks through the window. Ward’s and Kit’s backs are to him. How to do this? “Hmm.” He tucks the knife through his belt loop and decides to just go.

He’s through the door and across the room in seconds. He loops the runner around Ward, pulls it tight, and knots it behind his chair. Ward is stunned for a second; then he yells.

“Shove the napkin in his mouth,” he tells Kit.

“No, K, no—”

Kit doesn’t waste any time. He clamps his fingers around Ward’s jaw and cuts off his pleas with the napkin. “Won’t he just spit it out?”

“Push it back far enough he won’t. Just don’t choke him.” Ward flails, attempting to spit it out and fight, but Arthur tightens the knot. “Are you okay?” He ignores the stifled noises Ward makes.

“I am now,” Kit says. “I expected you’d get free, but I thought it would take a bit longer. I was…”

“It’s okay. We need to get him out of here before that…waiter…comes back.”

“Jameson likes having ‘footmen,’” Kit explains. “We can take him up—” He looks up. The pianist has come into the dining room.

“Fuck,” Arthur says. “I forgot about you.”

“Um,” says the pianist. He pivots.

“Why’d you stop playing?” Kit asks.

“Sir?”

Kit winks at him and licks up the side of Ward’s face. Ward makes muffled sounds of protest.

The pianist’s face turns into an “Oh” expression. He hustles back to the piano.

Ward flails again. The table runner is slick, and it comes loose enough for him to twist his arm back. Arthur feels a sharp pain in his side. He looks down and finds a steak knife embedded in his abdomen. He is momentarily stunned, and Ward uses the time to push himself away from the table, reach up, and pull the napkin from his mouth.

Arthur punches him. Kit stuffs the napkin back in his mouth and Arthur tosses him over his shoulder, grunting. He lets himself look down. He’s bleeding. A lot. Ward kicks and thrashes against him, and Arthur winces, gritting his teeth, and follows Kit to the elevator. He presses the call button and holds Ward’s legs. He tries to pull the knife from his belt loop.

Arthur’s world spins as they get into the lift. Kit presses the fifth-floor button, and everything starts to go dim.

“Arthur? Arthur! No!”

 

ARTHUR AWAKENS IN a large bedroom. He’s handcuffed, and his ankles are bound in another spreader bar. He tries to say, “This is getting old,” but his mouth only makes a feeble garble. He gradually becomes aware of his surroundings. Kit is bound in a chair beside him.

“I tried,” Ward says, pacing back and forth. “I tried to show you. You wouldn’t listen. You refuse to see.” He turns and his eyes seem to bore into Arthur before turning to Kit. “You’re trying to leave me again. I won’t let you.”

Arthur looks down. The knife has been removed, and it’s bleeding even worse. “Mike, I thought you liked to play,” Kit says in a teasing voice.

“I don’t believe you.” Ward’s voice has that monotonous quality again. He runs his hand along Kit’s face. “I don’t understand why you have to lie. You’re everything to me, K, and no one is ever going to love you like I do again. Ever.”

“You can’t love someone you don’t even know, Michael.”

“What?”

“I said you can’t love someone you don’t even know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you don’t love me. You love fucking me. There’s a difference.”

“No, I do. See what I’m doing for you?” He gestures to Arthur. “You’ll never see. I let you spend too long on your own.” He shakes his head. “It’s ruined now.”

“So let us go.”

“No. No, I’ll never let you go, K. You’re going to be mine forever.” He wraps his hand around Kit’s neck. “Forever.” He squeezes, and Kit’s breath quickens. Arthur tries to move, to launch himself at him, but his body feels heavy and limp. “But first…” Ward lets up. He stands and goes to a wardrobe. He opens it and pulls out a camera and a tripod. “I have to make sure everything will be recorded perfectly. I only have one chance to get this right.”

“Get what right?”

Ward doesn’t answer. He extends the tripod and sets it up across the room. Kit’s breath is still heavy and loud. Ward turns on the camera. He checks the view, moves the lens in and out, and then hums in satisfaction. “Good,” he whispers. “Always so perfect on camera.” He pulls out a knife. It’s the one Arthur had in his pants, and it just figures. He actually got a knife, and it’s only going to be used against him. Ward carries it over and slides it across Arthur’s neck.

“No,” Kit says. “No, please, don’t.”

“It’s so sharp. Look—it shaves him.” Arthur glares at him in silence, and he scrapes the blade across his stubble. He looks down at his side and gestures to the wound. “See how he’s bleeding? A man can’t live long like that.”

“Please, Mike, whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want. I’m sorry—I’ll come back.”

“It’s too late.”

Kit slips out of his chair, onto his knees. His ankles are in a spreader, too, and he is also handcuffed. “Mike…” Kit’s voice goes soft again, like before. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

Ward takes the knife to the neck of Arthur’s shirt and tears it down the middle. Kit leans forward, onto his hands and knees, crawling forward. “All this skin…” Ward whispers. “I think I should carve my name onto him, to mark him, first.” He looks down at Kit. “And you too. So anyone who sees what you become will see my mark.”

He leans forward and holds the blade to Arthur’s chest. Kit reaches forward, as if he’s pleading, and a gleam catches Arthur’s eye. Without hesitation, Kit plunges the steak knife into the back of Ward’s thigh. Ward screams. He turns to Kit, wielding the knife. “You little slut, what did you do? Who do you think you are? Kneel!”

“No,” Kit says. Ward holds up the knife and lunges at him. Kit rolls to the side, and Ward’s knife plunges into the floor. He yanks on it, but Kit is quick. He holds the steak knife to Ward’s neck with his handcuffed hands.

The door bursts open. Cooper walks through, holding a gun. “Why didn’t you answer the goddamn phone?” he complains. He assesses the room. “Huh.” He calmly strides across the room and punches Ward in the face. He falls hard, and Cooper presses him down with his boot.

Kit crawls to Arthur and unfastens the ankle spreader. “He’s been stabbed.”

“I can see that.”

“We need to get him to the hospital.”

“Get the spreader over here on this one.”

Arthur’s vision fades in and out. “I’m trying,” he hears Kit whine.

He tries to say, “He’s wearing handcuffs,” but all that comes out is another low rumble.

“Where’s the key to these handcuffs?”

“Maybe there’s a spare in the nightstand.”

“Well, get yourself out of the spreader, too, and then get the key.” Ward groans, and Cooper pushes harder. “Don’t piss me off any more than I already am, motherfucker.”

Kit unfastens his own spreader and shakes out his legs. “We need to get something on Arthur—it’s bleeding bad.”

“Secure this one first; then we take care of the big guy.”

Kit mumbles something and gets the key from the nightstand. He unlocks his handcuffs and puts them on Ward instead. He gets his ankles in the spreader and fastens it. He rushes to Arthur. He gets him out of his cuffs and pulls back his torn shirt to look at the cut. “It’s deep.”

Cooper glares at Ward. “Stay,” he commands, like he’s a dog. He ducks into the en suite and returns with a towel. “All right. Lots of pressure. Just add more if he bleeds through—don’t pull any away.”

Kit looks pale, but he nods. Arthur manages to lift his head. “Pike?”

“He’s downstairs,” Cooper says. “Saying hello.”

“Hel-lo?” Arthur grunts.

“This one’s pal, Jameson, is downstairs.” He takes the camera off the tripod. “Huh. Still recording. That’s interesting, isn’t it?” He looks at Ward.

Ward looks paler than Kit.

“All right.” Cooper looks at Kit. “Can you help Arthur to the elevator?”

Kit nods and all but lifts Arthur to his feet. His arm around Arthur is strong and sturdy, and Arthur allows himself to lean against Kit, grinding his teeth with the pain. “That’s it,” Kit whispers. “Lean as much as you need.”

Cooper unlocks his phone and taps it a few times. He holds it up to his ear and waits. “Got it?” he asks. The person must answer affirmatively because he says, “Good. Can you come to the fifth? I got something I need help carrying… Heh. Yeah, it’s a giant piece of shit.”

Kit gets Arthur almost all the way to the elevator when it chimes and opens. A man with long, dark hair steps out. He looks at Arthur’s side. “Um…”

“Who are you?” Kit asks.

“Aiden. Are you Arthur?”

Kit laughs. “No. No, this is Arthur. I’m Kit.”

“Where’s Cooper?”

“Front bedroom.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, thank you, darling.”

Aiden lifts an eyebrow, but Arthur sees the flush on his cheek as he goes.

“Flirt,” Arthur grunts, letting Kit guide him into the lift. He hisses as his arm is jostled.

“Mmm…” Kit leans close to his ear. “You like it, too, don’t you? Want to think about me and him later?”

“Hmm.” Arthur tries to appear annoyed.

“I can see you like it. He does look like rather the definition of tall, dark, and handsome, doesn’t he?” He nibbles lightly at Arthur’s ear and hits the first-floor button. “Don’t get too excited, though. Oof—” He takes more of Arthur’s weight. “That’s right, like that.”

“Distract me more,” he grunts, closing his eyes.

“Of course. You know, you have a lovely bunch of friends. Do you think you’d like to pass me around?”

“No.”

“You want me all to yourself, then?”

“Mm.”

“Or do you want me all to yourself, but they have to watch?”

Arthur pictures it: himself, driving into Kit in a featureless room, them watching, unable to touch. “Hmm.”

Kit presses a kiss to his neck. “What were you like as a child?”

Arthur huffs. “They called me an old soul.”

“I’ll bet you hated to share your toys.”

“You aren’t my toy.”

Kit sucks in a breath. “Good answer.” The elevator stops, and they make their way into the long foyer. Gordon Pike stands by the door to the back, which Arthur saw the light behind before. It’s open now, and he sees it is a sort of office or study. A man sits at a broad desk, and Arthur recognizes him. Jameson. His desk holds a silver globe and an open box of Apple Jacks.

“Ah, is this Mr. Adams? How good of you to join us.” He ignores Kit, seeming to not notice him, and rage courses through Arthur’s veins. It’s like he’s invisible.

Pike sees the blood-soaked towel. “What happened?”

“Ward,” Arthur says. He tries to be forceful, but his voice cracks with the effort to speak.

“Michael Ward stabbed him. It’s on tape. They’re bringing it down.”

“Who?”

Kit looks at Jameson, then back to Pike. “The others.”

Pike nods. “I understand you were kidnapped. Jameson, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

“Why?”

“Kidnapping. It’s a felony.”

“I wasn’t aware of any kidnapping. You’ll recall, Gordon, that just now, you informed me of his presence here.”

“Their,” Arthur corrects him. He tightens his grip on Kit’s shoulder. “Both.”

“It’s your home, if I remember right,” Pike argues.

“All manner of people stay at my house, as I’m sure you’re aware, Gordon. You can check with any number of them about this, and I’m certain they will affirm I have nothing to do with a great many things that happen here.”

“Bullshit. Why would Michael Ward bring them here when he has his own place across town? You’re involved in this, Jameson. I know it.”

“I imagine he brought them here because he’s deranged.”

Pike and Kit both lean back in shock. “What?” Kit asks.

“Honestly, he’s been useful to me for many years, but recently…he’s a liability. Increasingly so. It seems he’s finally been consumed with his obsessions.” His eyes flit over Kit. “And his films have become stale. It will serve us well to hire some new talent. What’s the sentence for kidnapping and attempted murder now? I hope it’s long enough to keep him away for a while.”

Pike shakes his head. “You aren’t foo—”

“Gordon,” Arthur cuts him off. He gasps with the pain. He’s still barefoot, and his foot feels slick on the marble floor. The elevator chimes again, and Cooper and Aiden carry Ward out from the lift.

“There he is now. Rest assured, Gordon, that I’ll assist the prosecution in any way I can… Unless I’m needlessly tied up in this.”

Pike clenches his fists. “Let’s go,” he says. “We need to get him to a hospital.”

 

OUTSIDE, COOPER AND AIDEN load Ward into the back of Pike’s car. A silent man in black sits in the passenger seat. Another car, nondescript and black, smoothly pulls up the manicured drive. The rear window rolls down. Dom peers out. “It looks like you need a ride,” he says.

“Mm,” Arthur grunts.

Dom opens the door. He slides over, and Kit helps him into the seat. “If you would join us, Mr. Sullivan, I would appreciate it.”

“What are you doing here?” Pike hisses from the sidewalk.

“I take it your methods were unsuccessful.”

“He has at least one girl in there,” Kit says. “And at least one of his male servants looked young as well. Can’t you just—”

“No. We don’t have any sort of warrant for a raid. Did they seem distressed?” Pike asks.

“No, but—”

“We have to find a different way.”

“Is that the go-ahead?” asks Dom.

Arthur feels light-headed.

“We need to get him to the hospital now,” Kit urges them.

“That’s the go-ahead,” Pike sighs.

Kit climbs into the front passenger seat and closes the door.

“To Memorial,” Dom tells the driver. “Before Arthur loses any more blood.”